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After 10,000 kilometres, through hazy surroundings Tehran creeped into
view. I remember glancing at Will as a knowing smile creeped onto our lips.
‘We had made it’, as long as we could advance through the gauntlet of
tunnels, causeways, motorways, ring roads and noxious levels of pollution
which fortify the city from cyclists. There was a certain joy to seeing
Tehran not as an apparition as it had been for 114 days but as a real
physical entity. The joy was tangible though not as overpowering as I
believed it would have been before we set off. It confused me. Would this
moment not define the triumphs and trials of the past four months? Would
this not be the apotheosis of our trip?

It reminded me of the book - *The Art of Travel *- by the contemporary
polymath and philosopher, Alain de Botton. I found his discussion of the
perception versus the reality of travel insightful. Indeed, your holidays
on Mediterranean beaches are rarely the image rendered by Thomas Cook or
which you envisage before departing; the white sand beaches; the cooling
breeze gently rustling the palm trees; the tranquility as you stroll down
the beach with your feet squelching in the water gently percolating through
the sand. The reality is usually a mouthful of detritus projected your way
as a screaming child is pulled after his mother past your cemetery
plot-sized piece of beach.

With a journey like Beijing to Tehran it is difficult to conjure up one
coherent image to encapsulate the entire trip like a Mediterranean beach
holiday. Whilst there were aspects I was not able to anticipate, there were
facets that I remember envisaging. I imagined evenings in my tent reading a
book as a breeze flew through. I imagined cold drinks as we stopped after a
tough couple of hours of cycling. I pictured the satisfaction of completing
a testing day and the elation of finishing after four months in the saddle.
I envisaged the joy of being able to plaster my face with chocolate, trying
to fulfill my average 6,000 calorie a day quota. I conjured up images of
seclusion and serenity as we pedaled along smooth tarmac into the expanse
of Central Asia, Bob Dylan ringing in my ear. I pictured drivers full of
resentment or alcohol trying to run us off the road and an array of unique
national delicacies served to us as we explored the culture. Others I have
forgotten, but this was my speckled perception on the dusk of the 15th May
as we lowered ourselves into our saddles with the same care as a climber
would clip on his belay.

More often than not the reality was very different. Reading in my tent
rarely took place as it was too cramped. The lack of ventilation also made
it a sauna during daylight hours so one would constantly perspire. When we
found cold drinks in shops, if some of these institutions could be called
that, they certainly were not lager tap chilled, nor did they stay cold for
long. In the hotter countries sipping your water bottle became a less than
enjoyable experience as the water is heated to the temperature of a steamy
bath. Smooth tarmac was as rare as finding a punnet of raspberries and some
cultural delicacies had the same culinary appeal as prison food. Bob
Dylan’s *Blowin' In The Wind *provided some distraction when I was being
blown by the wind but rarely at other times; not knowing when you can next
charge you iPod makes one reluctant to use it except when you really need
to. Whilst a tough days did come with satisfaction it also came with the
realisation that you had countless more. The days of sandstorms, headwinds,
sub zero temperatures and 45 degree heat were tough. When a strong headwind
is blowing at you through the monotony of flat, arid expanses I found few
things more mentally challenging. There is nothing to distract your mind
from the ache in your legs, the numbing of your buttock or the tightness in
your back. Having to pedal just as hard but go at half, sometimes a quarter
of your normal speed is at times mildly depressing, especially when you
have ninety days still to go. I cannot complain though, as this duration is
still shorter than pregnancy.

I did not foresee that I would stop nibbling my finger nails due to the
need for high standards of hygiene and the stress of modern society
vanishing. Nor would I have imagined my adolescent spots disappearing as
refined carbohydrates and grease left my diet. The thought that my body
would naturally wake up at 4:15am with the first palettes of light soaking
up the stars was as much a dream as those I am usually having at this time.
I could never have predicted the frequency and level of kindness that we
experienced; my anthropological grasp on the customs and culture of Central
Asia was too narrow. It is one of these ironies that the less one tends to
have the more one gives. When people are subsisting or have little,
financially speaking, the importance of caring for one another comes to the
fore. Less often does financial value come into the calculation of giving
or generosity as it sometimes does in the Western world. Here, it is more
an act of human kindness. Perhaps this is a reason why not just to plan and
perceive an adventure but to actually go on it. If not, you will never be
able to weigh up yours and societies preconceptions and judgements against
your experienced reality of it. Though the demands of cycling meant I saw
less popular sites than I would have liked, I would never have known what
these countries really looked, smelt, tasted and felt like without visiting.

The expedition was as much a physical challenge as a psychological one. It
was as much a search for greater self awareness and understanding as a
realisation of your priorities in life. I found being on a bike helped to
distill this. You are stripped of societal comforts. You have time to look
and see and a lot of time to think. You are in a position of physical
vulnerability and low social status. In contemporary society travelling by
bike is a sign of a low class and therefore of humility. If you are rich
you travel by car. Especially as a Westerner being on a bike, you are both
physically exposed and inadvertently humble yourself. People are more
likely to engage with you, even fleetingly, because you are accessible and
unique and as a result will have a more authentic experience.

Whilst there is much more that could be said, being back in the UK has been
like stepping onto a escalator that is not moving. It is unsettling and
having been back for little over a month it has at times been difficult to
readjust back to conventional life and reflect with any real sense of
hindsight. I think for both Will and I it will take a long time to digest:
the experience was too substantial, visceral and vivid for the memories to
dissolve. Indeed, the process of discussing the experience with friends and
the media, creating photo albums and a short film pioneered by Will
‘Spielberg’ Hsu brings it blazing back into view. Time will be needed to
reorientate, recover and settle into university life but it has all been
worth it in order to make this trip possible and support the fantastic work
of A Child Unheard.

It was Iran that typified one of the most memorable aspects of the trip;
that is the kindness and hospitality we have almost universally received.
This is not to say there were not moments of serious concern along the way
but on a human level, from one person to another, we were welcomed
throughout. Quite simply I thought I might highlight a few instances of
such kindness.

Nestled in the north-eastern corner of Kazakhstan is the city of Semey.
During Soviet times it was renown for being situated close to a large
nuclear testing site. Today, the effects of such testing still hang over a
generation left deformed and cancer ridden by radiation poisoning. Sweaty
and grumpy upon arrival at our hotel some students saw us, there names were
Niyaz, Vika and Zhansulu. Before long we were swept up in their designs for
our short time in their city. They showed us around during the evening,
having a drink and ice cream with them. They banned us from paying for
anything. The next day, they offered to be our personal chauffeurs, showing
us anything we wanted to see. We were given a much more extensive tour of
the city and the surrounding scenic areas as we chatted away in the back.
Upon return many hours later and after much argument we just about managed
to buy them tea. They wanted nothing more.

In Almaty, the largest city in Kazakstan as we attempted to hailed down an
official taxi, a green 1990s E-Class pulled alongside us. A boy, slightly
younger than ourselves sat in the back with his father at the wheel. They
asked as where we wanted to go and after telling them we hopped into the
back. We have been in many unmarked cars and neither car or driver were
registered. This however did not concern us in the slightest. After minutes
of general chatter, Nuro, the boy in the back said we would be there in
twenty minutes, adding in casually that the trip would be free of charge.
After half an hour of bad traffic they beamed, waving us off without regret
of their decision.

A couple of weeks later, we found ourselves far from power lines or
established roads at the top of a pass in the Tian Shan Mountains. Part of
the postcard view was an array of grazing cattle and a lone wagon. As I
cycled towards it three pairs of short legs jolted towards me, waving
towards their home. Their mother or father were nowhere in site and they
had as much grasp of English as I did of Kyrgyz. I was tired, still having
over an hour to cycle but it was downhill so with a grateful sigh I joined
some of the world’s most polite children for tea. The thirteen year old
offered to wheel my bike whilst the ten and sixteen year olds scooped some
water out of a bowl so I could rinse my hands before they gestured me into
the warmth of their home. The wagon was bare, reminding me of a more homely
portacabin. A worn pile of playing cards lay on a low table below a single
exposed lightbulb: that was all their living room, if I can demarcate like
this, contained. I felt I could have packed its contents into a pannier.
However, they did not seem dissatisfied with their lack of worldly goods.
Together we sat happily eating stale bread and swallowing fermented cows
milk whilst trying to communicate with an array of elaborate gestures.
After twenty minutes I had established that there were four children in
their family and that one of them had a twin (one of the two halves was not
there). With a struggle, I managed to communicate that I too was a twin and
the cities I was heading for, as they pronounced them again for me - this
time correctly. With clouds rolling in as fast as the morning mist lifts I
decided to leave promptly, warmly shaking their hands. They seemed to
understand my predicament. One of the twins rode on his horse to where the
road dropped off. We smiled and waved at each other with a knowing grin.

Whilst there are dozens more instances of equal warmth, I will offer a
final one from Iran. This country ended up being not just the friendliest
of the trip but of anywhere I have ever travelled. Innumerable times shop
keepers would refuse payment for the goods we brought; people would wave or
clap out of their cars and those on the street would greet us with
uplifting warmth. On one occasion it was pouring down and the wind was
gusting as the road became spotted with leaves and branches. It was the
sort of weather that would see a reporter gesticulating an amber warning on
the morning weather report. As we tried to avoid this debris Will went over
a sharp piece of glass creating a gash in his tire. Whilst we solved this
by fitting a tire boot a car stopped, asking us if there was anything they
could do. Wet and covered in black grease thrown up from the road our
apparitions smiled and thanked them. However, they weren’t taking no for an
answer as they revealed two warm seeded loaves of bread before waving
goodbye.

*Sorry for the lateness of this blog on the cities of Samarkand and
Bukhara. Chronologically speaking it should be read in between ‘The Roof of
the World’ and ‘The Gates of Hell’ – enjoy.*

It was said that Bukhara was so holy that here light shone upwards to
radiate the heavens, rather than the skies illuminating the earth. For
centuries, the fabled Silk Road cities of Samarkand and Bukhara were some
of the most important cities in Muslim Central Asia. They acted as
educational centres, religious focal-points, the resting places of the
Emir’s and Khan’s, military strongholds and oases of trade burrowed into a
barren landscape.

From the Tajik-Uzbek border it was a three day cycle in over forty degree
heat to Samarkand. Whilst Will was clear of stomach issues from the
Pamir’s, I was still riddled with diarrhoea. We have been eating around
6,000 calories a day and were still losing weight. This was only
accelerated by a lack of appetite and before long belts became a necessity
we did not have, as partially exposed buttocks gave a prisoner like
appearance. Day by day I felt my energy levels decrease, which was
exacerbated by the heat. The biggest battle was trying to drink enough as
we guzzled down close to ten litres when on the road during some of the
hottest days.

Battling onwards into Samarkand a sparkling oasis awaited. Here we explored
the mosques, mausoleums and madrassa’s which adorn the city. At night the
famous Registan, the old city centre, is lit up as mosaics of gilded tigers
and deer’s leap forward with vivid animation.

It is a wonderful city and certainly worth a visit. Ribbed minarets dome
the mausoleums of great conquers like the Amir Temur and the many roomed
madrassa’s sit quite as they did when ingenuity burst from their doors.
Now, all that signals the scale of the once great Ulug Bek’s Observatory is
a stone foundation hollowed out by a later age of narrow minded rulers. The
Tomb of the Old Testament Prophet Daniel points to common religious roots
shared with the Judo-Christian world as piteous pilgrims come with
offerings and prayer. Like the famous mosaic above the iwan entrance on the
Sherdor Madrassa depicting a tiger chasing after a deer, in this city there
is much you can seek.

On our self-powered caravan we headed from one caravanserai to the next
along the ‘Royal Road’. It runs 250 kilometres from Samarkand to Bukhara
and with such a heady title we had high expectations. Our hopes of a visual
treat were dashed as a road of Roman linearity ran into horizontal
surroundings following the oasis sprouting along the course of the
Zervashan River. This roads main function was for rapid communications and
trade rather than our more prominent aesthetic considerations and with the
speed it allowed us and millennia of previous travellers; one can see how
it has taken on regal undertones.

Unlike the coruscations of Samarkand, the cobbles of Bukhara transported
one back to the time of the Emirs. Stalls nestled into the cracks and juts
of madrassa’s and bazaars and a uniformity of domes pimpled the landscape
rising like mole hills from a sandy basin. The famous Kalyan minaret pokes
up like the stump of a cigar adorned with a sombrero shaped pinnacle,
wrapped in a band of Islamic motives. Below is the Arc fortress, the old
seat of the Emir of Bukhara. It is squinted by a sparkle of mosaic from the
Mir Arab reflecting with a blinding intensity, like a maze of brightly
shattered glass webbed into millions of pieces.

It is a city that captures your gaze and is much more authentic experience.
Inside it feels like you are dwelling in a khanate rather than a country.
However, with hundreds of sites to visit it is easy to take it for its
parts rather the whole and like the Silk Road itself one must view it in
its charming, multifaceted entirety.

When Human Rights Watch advertises Turkmenistan as ‘one of the world’s most
repressive countries’, having the world’s lowest press freedoms after
Eritrea and North Korea, one wonders if you should be going there. Indeed,
the draconian restricotions that have been implemented since 1991 after the
takeover by Saparmurat Niyazov, or popularly known as Turkmenbashy, and
Gurbanguly Berdimuhamedow after his death in 2006 has made our journey
across the country and our time in the capital Ashgabat one of the more
culturally unique experiences of the trip.

Our entry to Turkmenistan was just before the geographically remote but
significant Amu Darya River, formerly known as the Oxus. The Great Game
player, William Moorcroft was one of the first Europeans to cross this
allusive river on his journey through Afghanistan to Bukhara, providing him
with momentary relief from the heat of the area which hits you like that
from a blacksmiths furnace. From here, the dominating aspect of our cycle
across the country was the personality cult of these ‘President’s for Life’.

In one of Sacha Baron Cohen’s satires - The Dictator - the dictator
himself is partly inspired by Niyazov himself. In the film the immaculate
white army dress, disingenuous smile and partial wave of Admiral General
Aladeen are based on features of the eccentric Niyazov. Indeed, posters
throughout the country bear an uncanny resemblance to those in the film.

Even in the sparsely populated countryside, it was clear we were inside an
authoritarian regime. Internet censorship, police checks and a ban on
photos of officials, official buildings, barracks, bridges, and railway
stations followed us where ever we went. However, these aspects weren’t all
that different from some of the other Central Asian countries we have
visited. It was only when we arrived in Ashgabat that the level of control
really manifested itself.

The uniformity of the city was as such that it could have only have been
the result of an enforced, centralised policy. For kilometres out of the
city centre radiated layers of white marble buildings. They became
compulsory after a degree by Turkmenbashy. Most of the cars are also white
but this will soon become mandatory, presumably as part of the
President’s pernickety
policy making in preparation for the 2017 Asian Games in Ashgabat, although
this is speculation as justification or information is rarely given. It
took me over two days to realise that not one bark of a dog had filled the
air or had I seen any men with long hair or beards. This was the result of
policies introduced because the President neither liked the odour of dogs
nor ‘Unturkmen’ appearances. Most enterprise and industry is state owned
and signs of private ownership are as rare as sightings of the American
flag. Over three days in the city I did not see one piece of litter, not
one. Legions of cleaners and gardeners keep the city immaculate in a land
surrounded by desert. Will spotted one cleaning the back of already clean
stop sign. In this oppressive but wealthy regime, with some of the world’s
largest deposits of natural gas, this is perhaps one of the benefits.

Berdimuhamedow, the current President, if that term is appropriate, appears
to be a slightly more moderate and benign policy maker than his
predecessor. He has even retracted some of the more extreme policies like:
the renaming of the days and months of the year after Turkmenbashy, his
family, his book and Turkmen heroes; the banning of the circus, ballet and
opera for being ‘not Turkmen like’ and the arbitrary withdrawing of the
pensions to over 100,000 elderly people due to a sudden budget shortfall.
One of the less threatening but most astonishing of Turkmenbashy’s policies
was the discouragement of gold teeth by encouraging the chewing on bones to
help strength them and lessen the rate they rot as he had observed dogs do
when he was a child. Despite Berdimuhamedow’s retraction of such policies
his personality cult is still of equivalent potency to his predecessor’s.

Both these contemporary potentates have made their images and names
ubiquitous with the country. Just as a start, Turkmenbashy has two
airports, a city, a theatre, a type of tea and brand of vodka named after
him. Both have their egos plastered across buildings, polished into statues
and etched onto magazines, books and journals. Since Berdimuhamedow taking
charge some monuments to Turkmenbashy, like a golden statue of him that
rotates to always face the sun, have been moved in place of his own
preferences. Like an unrestrained mildly psychotic Roman Emperor, statues
of Berdimuhamedow are fast appearing.

There is much that could be improved in the country but there are hints of
benevolence that radiate from the weeds of unrestricted authoritarianism.
The country is clean and orderly. Ahead of many western countries, smoking
was banned in public places and discouraged, although it was for the wrong
reasons after the President had to quit for health concerns. Whilst, going
around the spectacular archaeological site of Merv we were told by our
cicerone that the Ministry one works for will supplement 50% of the cost of
buying your first house and all citizens’ benefit from free gas, water,
electricity and table salt. It seems that as long as you do not criticise
the government there is a certain level of welfare in the country, though
it is one that can be ripped from under your feet at any moment. I was also
impressed with the safety people feel when walking around, particularly at
night. Women walk around alone and seem comfortable doing so. Of course, as
a tourist and with limited time here it is difficult to truly understand
how safe people feel, but the country’s low crime rate provides certain
credence.

Still, I get the sense of an undercurrent of frustration and discontent at
the system. Whilst chatting with a local I gently asked about the political
situation. One blunt response I got was, ‘no one can be more powerful than
the President’. When I have asked people if they like the President
everyone says ‘Yes!’ However, more often than not their body language tells
a different story. When driving to see the Darvaza Gas Crater (see previous
blog), we were stopped, not for the first time, at a police checkpoint. The
driver had to go in and pay a bribe to continue. This resulted in a very
angry driver cursing the system.

There have been more substantial efforts than close quartered articulations
at push back against the minimal individual liberties, lack of political
accountability and levels of corruption. There was an unsuccessful
assassination attempt against Turkmenbashy, though this was rumoured to be
a political ploy to eliminate his sole political opponent. A less disputed
attack on the current system was a leaflet campaign which took place during
the cover of night. It called for the President’s overthrow but it failed
and the result was just further restrictions to prevent this from
happening. Whilst ‘peace, bread, land’ is provided, the country prospers
and the people see some return from this, I doubt any significant
opposition will come to surface.

Gateways to Hell have a long history in western imagination. In Classical times, Homer believed it lay at the River Acheron in north-west Greece, where it meets the Styx and the Pyriphlegethon. Virgil thought it was the Crater Lake Avernus in Italy. In the middle ages the poem Voyage of St. Brendan locates it as Mount Hekla in Iceland which erupted in the twelfth century and again in the fourteenth. The latest epithet for the Darvaza Gas Crater in Turkmenistan is the ‘Gates to Hell’. With the idea of the underworld being one which originated in western imagination it is somewhat appropriate that its latest portal is one formed by humans.

Beneath the frozen mountains, plateaus of rolling meadows lie bear and lifeless. Life is unsustainable in this challenging environment. It is too high for anything to survive year round and it is no surprise that the landscape resembles more of a moonscape. Unlike other mountain ranges, the Pamir’s receive little rain and greenery is nearly as hard to come by as a sign of life. The Manichean colour scheme is only softened by the outline of deep blue curling above and over the mountains. Breathing here is like receiving moisture from a mouthful of cinnamon as drinking frequently is essential to stop parched lips bleeding and your mouth drying out completely against the wind and sun. Such is the price of visiting ‘The Roof of the World’.

The climb to the higher clutches of the range along the Gulcha River was at least one frequented with shade as trees clung to the river’s edge sapping up the dwindling snow melt running down the valley. With this fertility came small villages like the unpronounceable Uch-Dobe and Archalunn as children with their bikes, raced us up the slopes approaching the Taldyk Pass. As we edged above 3000 metres, the thirty kilometre wide plain at Sary-Tash did not end with the curvature of the horizon but with a panorama of 6,000 metre peaks, proudly wearing their white capes of snow.

The millennia old Silk Road settlement of Sary Tash, placed at the cross roads of China, Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan, survey’s the scene like a 19thcentury explorer. In the centre of the range is the over 7,000 metre Peak of Lenin, glaring down at his tripartite of failed socialist states.

Due to the altitude, which unlike me Will copes very well with, we stopped at this plain for the day to acclimatise. Neither did he need Diamox, nor heavy chested had to walk over the 4,000 metre plus passes where just fallen snow crystals vanished like fairy dust in the light of summer. It is recommended that above 3,500 metres, which is considered high altitude, for every 300 metres you go up you should stop for the day to acclimatise. This drill to combat AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness) reminded me of the climbing expedition we met back in Osh. They were attempting to climb the Peak of Lenin. Though it has been successfully summited, many more have tried and many still lie on its slopes.

It was also in Osh, in return for a generous charitable donation, we both ‘hedgehoged’ our heads to take on the appearance of young monks travelling west on pilgrimage. It was a steep learning curve as the necessity for sun cream in the thinning air refashioned us with bright red streaks running through the prickly remains of our hair rounded like the fluff on a tennis ball. It gave us the appearance of Klingons, as the rest of my face turned red with the recognition of this new appearance.

After the plain came the endorheic Lake Karakul in Tajikistan sitting viscous like the running yoke of an egg surrounded by the whites of the mountains. It was formed twenty-five million years ago by a meteor impact. The debris from this impact were largely dispersed or vaporised but some remained in the form of an island in the lakes centre. This formation was just as uncompromising as the fates of German POWs who were kept prisoners on this island during WWII and remained there for years after the war ended detached from any semblance of hope.

This lake sits at 4000 metres as the drum beat of altitude in between my temples grew louder drawing me higher just as the drum beat from Jumanjipulls you in. Having been climbing with my father in the Himalayas and the Andes I knew my limitations at height. At a mountain, the name of which escapes me, near the Inca Trail, I was violently sick and passed out in the middle of the day due to ascending too fast. I was keen to avoid this experience and fortunately I did not suffer any major issues despite considerable concern that I would.

The Ak-Baital Pass was our highest at 4,655 metres; a height similar to ‘Dead Women’s Pass’, a name with less than gender neutral connotations on the Inca Trail. It is also a height just short of Europe’s highest peak, Mont Blanc. Whilst I rested the day before the final climb, Will went hunting for the rare Marco Polo sheep that sometimes can be found in the area. They live high and remote so he climbed upwards from camp into the speckle of the scree to just below the snow line at 5,000 metres to try and locate them. It is somewhat appropriate that he didn’t as it is thought that the Venetian traveller himself also didn’t despite it being named after him. Whilst he was doing this I was quite happy drinking ‘chai’ with the locals.

It was a tough heaving climb to the top of the pass as we started in the sub-zero prickle of the valley. At the top our victory was not marked by any sign or cairn. It is not touristy enough for anything to be marked and for some of the nomadic locals getting over this pass is another difficult fact of life which they endure. Thumbs up from some western motorcyclists however did produce both a degree of satisfaction and envy as they shot away. Psychologically, once over the highest point of a mountain range it is easy to presume it is all downhill. The following seven days came pre-packaged with close to 10,000 metres of ascent before we exited the Pamir’s.

Part of this ‘descent’ was through over 300 kilometres of rolling canyon which dropped roughly 400 metres for every 100 kilometres traversed. It was never more than a kilometre across as patchworks of fields filled all available space on the valley sides. It ran northwards of the Wakhan Corridor; the dividing zone between the Russian and British Empire’s during The Great Game. In the middle of this corridor as well as this canyon runs the Punj River, which acts as the border between Tajikistan and Afghanistan. Indeed, we spent our days on the Tajik side a stone’s throw away from what Rory Stewart calls the ‘Place in Between’ – Afghanistan.

It is a country much discussed but little discovered in the western world and such proximity led to a longing to explore it. Our interaction through the telescope of distance was, though limited, very positive. Machine guns and the whistle of Stinger missiles did not echo across the valley but instead waving women and the shouting of greetings from unpaved roads and flat roofed mud houses. The only sound of violence we heard was that of an explosives team detonating a mine planted on the hills above the road on the Tajik side. After the Soviet-Afghan War the Russian mined the hill to cover their retreat as the surrounding beauty covered this sad truth.

Afghanistan is of course a country with significant dangers and it would be youthfully naïve to think differently. The recent attack on the tourist company in the country only helps to affirm this. However, political and religious conflicts do not preoccupy all peoples as human kindness was what emanated strongest from across the divide; as it does so often from more intimate interactions.

The border is not impermeable as visas allow visits and several ‘Friendship Bridges’ facilitate more impromptu economic interaction in the form of a Saturday market on the Tajik side. In Khorog, we visited such a market and had some enjoyable chats with kind and generous white robed Afghans.

However, with the 'Roof of the World' now behind us we can breathe a little easier, sleep a little deeper and watch the minarets and monuments of Samarkand and Bukhara grow steadily towards us.

If you were observing Kyrgyzstan from space it would be difficult not to
notice a big blue blob in the north eastern corner. This would be Lake
Issyk-Kul, the 2nd largest alpine lake in the world after the equally
spectacular Lake Titicaca straddling Peru and Bolivia. One would also
notice that it is shaped like a giant eye with the eastern and western
corner pulled tort and an iris shaped patch of 700 hundred metre deep blue
in the centre. At 180 kilometres at its longest point and 60 kilometres at
its widest it is staring at you like the eye of T.J. Eckleburg.

The lake itself is somewhat of a focal point in a country which is called
‘the jewel of central Asia’ for its outstanding natural beauty. Adding to
its allure is the once believed but now entertaining rumour that a distant
relative of the Loch Ness monster – the ‘Issyk-Kul Kraken’ - dwells in it
depths. However, he stayed hidden whilst we were there.

Our approach to the lake came from the east down the Karkara Valley from
Kazakhstan. In English ‘Karkara’ means ‘Black Crane’ as the bird uses the
valley as a resting place between their arduous journey from South Africa
to Siberia in June and September. This is an interesting parallel to the
history of the Kyrgyz people. The acclaimed Chinghiz Aimatov in his *A Day
Lasts Longer Than a Century* has them arriving at the valley from the
Yenisey region of Siberia. At Karkara a beautifully broad plain houses
herds of cattle which roam freely across the Kazak/Kyrgyz border which
dissects it. Seven hundred years ago another is rumoured to have roamed
here, Tamerlane, the founder of the Timurid Empire.

Many believe he used the lake as a summer base for his campaigns and had a
palace here. Over the past centuries the lake has been increasing in total
capacity, (although recently decreasing) swallowing potential
archaeological evidence beneath its depths, as recently uncovered
settlements suggest. Recent findings have even shown the remains of a 2,500
year old city belonging to a sophisticated civilisation which once sat on
the lakes shores.

Rows of poplar’s and a slight incline in the topography marked the most
eastern point of the lake, which is also allegedly the coldest point.
Before arriving here we passed a seemingly unassuming village called
San-Tash, which translates as ‘counting stones’. This indeed was the
aesthetic anomaly as my eyes honed in on the peculiar sight of a large pile
of stones in the middle of a flat field. They were heaped up in a way that
suggested they were not geologically formed as they took on the form of a
very large cairn. I was later to find out the importance of this mound.

The legend is that towards the end of the 15th century as Tamerlane led a
campaign eastward, leaving from Issyk-Kul, he got each one of his troops to
pick up a stone from the beach and drop it in the pile. On the return from
the campaign, the weary soldiers were ordered to remove a stone from the
pile. The remaining stones functioned as a way of assessing the level of
troop casualties. It is hard not to notice when looking at it how
unfortunately large the pile is. It is a grimly unintended,
self-constructed monument to the fallen soldiers on that campaign in China.

As we passed by the Mikhaylovka Inlet, near the furthest eastern corner, we
were passing the legacy of another; the famous Russian explorer and player
in ‘The Great Game’, Nikolay Przhevalsky. At first sight, he was astonished
by the beauty of the lake, seeing it as a superior to Lake Geneva. He
decided to settle here and ended up passing away on its shores, after
drinking water contaminated with typhoid during a hot days hunting. He was
buried overlooking the Inlet now surrounded by the delicate shades of 80
year old Tian Shan spruce trees. Here we visited a museum dedicated to him
as well as visiting his modest grave with the understating words
‘traveller’ on it.

Peering out through the iron railings of the sight, one could see rusting
cranes and piers above the tops of trees by the lake. If this was not the
sight of a decaying top secret Soviet testing facility one would be able to
go down to the beach sprawling with abandoned summer houses (datcha’s) for
Soviet holiday makers. This facility housed Soviet naval vessels, many of
which are now decaying in bolted warehouses. Torpedoes would be sent
jetting through the lake as part of military testing, although perhaps with
the less surreptitious objective of killing the supposed Kraken.
Unfortunately, the Kraken has not been maimed, let alone located, and
instead many of the torpedoes lie unexploded on the lakes bottom.

Over the next two days we cycled around the less developed south side of
the lake overlooking Aegean blue water and the panoramic Kungey mountain
range on the north side. Orchards, now wild, sat untended since Soviet
times and smashed aqueducts have been carted away for other purposes during
the years of mass unemployment following the Soviet breakup.

As we reached the lakes widest point at 60 kilometres, we found a massive
abandoned and elaborately gated compound with walls painted with scenes for
the Kyrgyz epic poem Manas. On the hill top overlooking the spectacle was
a 30 foot high figure, seated, with one hand raised in a sort of beckoning
motion. With closer inspection of the highly coloured scenes on the walls
this man was also present on a large segment of wall in front of the gate.
Confused and amused by this large outside space with empty fountains and
weeds growing, looking like the unfinished site of some cult gathering, we
cycled off pondering its purpose. Twenty kilometres westward at the Tong
Bay we discovered that it was an unfinished site to Sayak Bai Karalaev. He
was a famous chanter who lived in the region and knew all of the 500,000
verses of Manas, the longest epic poem in the world, by heart.

As we left the lake, though disappointed not to the have found the mythical
Kraken, we still certainly found more than we bargained for. Within ten
kilometres the landscape went from one of fertility to parched earth not
dissimilar to the colour of skin surrounding an eye as the soil dried up.
This will be shorted lived as we beat on westward heading towards ‘The Roof
of the World - the fabled Pamir Mountains.

As we continue to head westwards battling the dominant westerly’s it seems
like a good time to reflect on both the fortunes and vagaries of the past
60 days through China, Mongolia, Russia and Kazakhstan.

The Gobi Desert of Inner Mongolia, sitting within the governance of China,
was the first real test of our tenacity. A three days long raging headwind
turned 450 kilometres in the desert into an unpalatable psychological
experiment. Daily, it was race against time as 5am starts helped to avoid
the worst of this silent killer as the sun rose like a ticking time bomb.
By the time it reached 8am our speed had been reduced to 10kmh as we
admired the monotony of sandy plains as the wind blew like numbing static
in our ears. For the remaining seven hours of these long day’s we looked
onwards, with only the string of power lines as vantage points. Such windy
days I find are the most psychologically taxing of obstacles when riding.
They are so fickle and arbitrary, whilst having the capacity to reduce a
perfectly pleasant day into an on-going torment. It does not even grant you
the tangible satisfaction which you achieve when grafting up a 12% gradient
hill.

The cherry on the cake in the Gobi came when we got caught in a sandstorm.
The wind whipped across the road sandblasting our skin as we winced with
bandanna's and glasses shielding our faces (we dared not take out the
camera). Sand swept across the road as billboards were toppled and tyres
tracks became our guide in the wavering visibility. With no shelter
available we had no choice but to beat on as toppled cattle on the road
side took on additional meaning. Of the 5,500 kilometres that we have
covered these were some of the most demoralising and challenging days.

Of course, it has not all been hard graft. Despite 1000km of off road
terrain in Mongolia on suspension-less road bikes, which had the effect of
rattling us like a loose rear fender, we were rewarded with stark but
stunning landscapes. Plains of grass rose up to wind swept hills and
sparsely located yurts pimpled the landscape as the nomads of Mongolia
reared their cattle as they have for millennia in this modern ‘Wild West’.

Some of the most pleasurable riding yet was in the Altai Mountains of
Russia; a fitting prologue to the fast approaching days of climbing in the
Pamir’s. Our three weeks in Mongolia was a tree-less affair and the
avalanches of alpine green cascading down the valleys was a heart-warming
sight. The newly tarmacked roads and windless conditions allowed us to
speed along at upwards of 35kmh as the days off road had substantially
improved our fitness. With the summer solstice looming so also came warmer
weather as thermal layers were discarded for additional water bottles as
our consumption topped seven litres whilst riding. Unlike in Mongolia where
the cold and rain resulted in near hypothermic conditions and shifting
gears became painful on numb fingers, here in the warmer Russia it was a
more welcome interlude.

It was here amongst the glazed peaks of the Altai region in Siberia that we
reached our highest latitude of 52° north before taking the third exit on
the roundabout and heading south. Although this meant my compass arrow was
pointing downwards it sadly did not mean it was all downhill for the next
month. Kazakhstan was consistent with the other countries as it pulled
strong headwinds out of the hat for example during a 188 kilometre ride as
we reached camp severely dehydrated and ready to hibernate.

Now we enter the mountains and meadows of Kyrgyzstan and traverse the south
side of Lake Issyk-Kul (the second largest alpine lake in the world). We
are prepared and optimistic for the coming two months with both the
challenges and joys it will present. It is all worth it to support the
amazing work of the charity* A Child Unheard*.

Compared to our stay in Mongolia our time in Russia was a mere skirmish.
Indeed, the border crossing to Russia did not just mark an important ethnic
and cultural change but also a considerable geographical shift. As we
crossed over the mountainous pass at Tashkent the arid and semi-desert
steppe of Mongolia blossomed into lush valleys as we rode towards the
fabled Altai Mountains.

From the border town of Tashkent it was a weeklong cycle towards
Gorno-Altaysk, the capital of the Altai Republic; a semi-autonomous region
in Russia of a similar size to the state of Indiana. Like much of the
central Asian melting pot the Altai region is an ethnic English breakfast
of Russians, indigenous Altaians, Kazakhs and Elengits. To cross the Altai
region we followed the Chukyt Tract, the only road from Mongolia to Russia,
carved through the Altai Mountains like the veins on ones foot. The Tract
follows the Katun River, a major tributary of the River Ob the 7th largest
river in the world which frames Cotswold green grass and plump cattle. The
alpine trees and ubiquitous road signs create a fairyland that could have
passed as Switzerland in this lonely corner of the globe

It was very quiet as we rode through the mountains; they have a mystical
sense to them. There is an air of detachment that even the breeze does not
disturb, as if the mountains have folded away long lost secrets. These
‘Golden Mountains’ (‘Altai’ meaning golden) can be seen as sitting in the
centre of Central Asia and are unusual in the unforgiving Central Asian
landscape. They act as an intersection between the taiga in the Siberian
north, the semi-arid deserts of Mongolia and the steppe to the south in
Kazakhstan. As we cycled through the avalanches of green falling down the
valley’s I remembered how pleased I was to be surrounded by trees after
previously seeing nothing more substantial than shrubs since Beijing. The
Altai landscape has inspired previous wanders like the Russian painter and
philosopher Nicholas Roerich who visited the region at the start of the 20th
century. He was attempting to locate the entrance to Shambala, the mythical
enlightened land of Tibetan Buddhism and staring at the white capped
furnaces above it is easy to see why.

Will and I discovered whilst speaking to a local Altaian woman along the
way that the mountains are indeed sacred to the followers of Shamanism.
When in their presence one should not shout, pick the grass, get drunk or
defecate on their peaks. This sacrosanct belief has millennia old history
which is enshrined in world renowned petroglyphs and kurgan stelae in the
cracks between mohawk’s of rising rock. There is something surreal, almost
transcended, about running your fingers over an etching of a reindeer made
thousands of years ago as we scrambled up the cracks of the valley walls.

As we left the mountains and entered the adjoining province, the Altai
Krai, the anticipated Russia returned. It was not the metros of Moscow or
palaces of Saint Petersburg but the real rural Russia. Where babushka’s
with shinning gold teeth beat their sticks at their cows and small
vegetable patches point to self-sufficiency, food security and poverty.
Where an elderly man drawing his horse and cart was less memorable than the
sight of a vodka bottle of a man, sleeping on his cart as the attached
horse trotted along next to cemeteries of wooden orthodox crosses,
reminding us of the religion which Stalin once tried to crucify.

Old collective farms lay desolate as only their long grey concrete shells
remained amongst the tangle of bushes and trees. Decade old tractors and
machinery stood in their dozen in farm yards as the faint echoes of
socialist collectivism still haunted the land. It is a highly fertile
region and the Altai Krai is the biggest producer of maize, rye and oats in
Siberia if not Russia. Here with the flat slightly rolling plains we could
have been so many places; England, New Zealand and Canada as a new John
Deere tractor ploughed a large field.

It was the war memorials which also united the land with so many other
cultures. They stood in most villages as the toll of the ‘Great Patriotic
War’ (1941-45) rang thousands of kilometres from the nearest battlefields.
I was shocked by their frequency and the number of names which lined their
walls as high as the mass graves which many are tragically buried in just
as deep. Most however were not the memorials of European sensibilities.
Animated soldiers full of furor and passion called out from sculpted black
rock with wide mouths and fiery eyes. Ablaze was the red Communist star as
politics still crowned the most shocking of human truths.

And perhaps the memories of former military might have risen in the
resurgent nationalism and even militarism which we witnessed. Dozens of
cars had the ribbon of the Order of Saint George flying from them. It is
the symbol of the ultra-nationalist sect in Russia, equivalent of the BNP
in the UK. Some vehicles had the Dushanbe separatist flag flying from them
like a stale breeze. We were presented with one from the windscreen of a
car outside the war memorial in Gorno-Altaysk as a gift from soldiers who
purported to have fought in Ukraine (with the implications that has).
Outside the same ‘Great Patriotic War’ memorial in Gorno-Altaysk, dozens of
children aged roughly four to fourteen were being marched up and down by
men in army uniform as if they were being trained for the years to come. On
numerous occasions we saw shirts with Putin glaring from their fronts. An
unforgettable one was him riding a wolf through the conquered wilderness.
It brought back memories of the Ork’s riding wolves in Tolkien’s’ *Lord of
the Rings *as they tried to extend their territory. As Kazakhstan
approaches we will see the lengths of past influence as well as that of the
present.

If Ulaanbaatar helps to point towards Mongolia’s future it is the yurt
which is ubiquitous with its past. As we skirt northwards towards the Altai
Mountains passing those white clothed structures laced with horse hair as
the smoke from dried dung rises through the roof, they take on a standing
more than just as an abode occupied by the majority of Mongolia’s
population. The yurt signifies a way of life, history and culture which is
far older than the country herself and was first recorded by Herodotus -
that of the nomad.

We were lucky enough to have crossed the threshold of several yurts into
this world during our skirmish in Mongolia. The most memorable was in the
town of Ulaangom, several days riding from the border with Russia.

Seven kilometres outside of town, down a horrifically bumpy headache
inducing track, we visited a Mongolian family to go horse riding -
Mongolian style. It was a terrific experience and though the horses did not
really listen to either of us, munching on some grass when they felt like
it, luckily it didn’t involve getting bucked off. As we approached, a two
cylinder motorbike sat outside the yurt next to the lower horse powered
horse. Throughout Mongolia, many of the younger generation prefer herding
using a motorbike; the symbol of the 21st century cowboy in the new Wild
West. A solar panel glints next to half a dozen newly born goats tied
against the cloth as a small satellite dish powers the newly purchased
television. Such is the modern fusion of technology with the structures
over 3000 year old history.

To prevent overgrazing and based on precedent one will rarely see more than
two or three yurts within several kilometres of each other as the family
unit constitutes the modern clan. The families herd, of no more than 100
cows, sheep and goats sat idly on the marshy plain picking on the grass as
blue paint on the horns marked their ownership.

It is rude to knock on the brightly coloured doors of yurts so in a shaming
accent, reminiscent of some unidentified dialect, I call out ‘Nokhoi khor’
to the family which roughly translates as ‘Can I come in?’, but literally
means ‘Hold your dog’. This is to avoid being eaten by a vicious and highly
protective mongrel which stalks the property. Over the past weeks we had
been chased by dozens of these less than puppy eyed security systems as we
passed by their homes. Here, three generations lived in the two yurts
within ten metres of each other. The parents lived in one, which we were
invited into, and their children and grandchildren in the other.

As I circled around the outside of the yurt I could see the beautiful
simplicity in its construction. It can be assembled in two hours and the
Mongolian nomads can deconstruct, transport and reassemble them within a
day. Daily we would pass a truck or mini-van laden with a family’s
belongings that were moving. The bones of the structure are an expanding
wooden circular frame which consists of several lattice wall sections, a
door frame and bent roof poles which plug the walls to the central wooden
crown to act as a roof. Felt acts as the meat of the structure and a cotton
cover as the skin, waterproofing the building. This is then wrapped
together in a cake shaped package by three tightly bound ropes of horse
hair. Such ease of assembly is necessary as families will move around more
times in a year than most Western families do in a lifetime. This is
roughly six to find fresh pastures for their herd.

Every yurt in Mongolia has its gaudy door facing south, granting
significance to the cardinal directions. As I duck through the 4 foot
hobbit-high door frame placing my right foot first over the threshold as
the ancient code demands I move around clockwise (women move around
anticlockwise) not stepping between the two central pillars that represent
the link between earth and sky. I am invited to sit on a small stool in the
north west segment, next to the shrine or ‘Xiomore’ (the sacred area in the
north), which is reserved for honoured guests.

As tradition demands I keep my feet pointed away from the sacred hearth and
do not turn my back to the shrine where a Buddhist image, suitcases, a
photo of the male head’s father in his sharply cut military uniform and
other treasured objects rest. Since yurts have no walls it makes them very
intimate and inclusive spaces, epitomising the importance of family which
is central to nomadic life.

The man reaches with his leathered hands into deep pockets to produce a
small jaded bottle of snuff. Will accepts it first with his right hand
touching his inner arm with his left hand as a sign of respect breathing it
in deeply as it tickles its way down his nostrils. Hospitality is
traditionally so important and it is deeply insulting to decline anything,
at least without trying it, as I gratefully accept the snuff of which many
nomads cannot afford.

The inside of the yurt is pristine and is kept with the same pride as a
Maharajah’s mausoleum. Everything has a place and purpose. The portable
sink is stationed just left of the door. On the western side (male side)
there are stacked saddles and leather milk bags. The east side (female
side) contains cooking implements, water, buckets and the food preparation
area where the wife silently prepared us tea with salted goat’s milk. A
pair of reading glasses, wallet and tooth brushes were cozied in-between
the orange painted wooden beams, which represent the colour of the sun, and
felt above our heads. Underneath the cabinets lay the bare ground as there
was no groundsheet (which is an indicator of the family’s wealth) as it
followed the natural contours of the dried earth. In the centre of the
yurt, or ‘ger’ in Mongolian, is the practically and symbolically
significant hearth. Here the wife knelt down and began to heat up the milk
tea as it bubbled up warming the space.

As we sat there with the man, his Chinese cigarette perched neatly in
between his tanned fingers, looking through his photographs, his son, a boy
a similar age to us entered wearing a vintage Adidas shirt and plonked
himself on his mother’s bed. I was surprised as this area was traditionally
reserved for women exclusively. We glanced at each other smiling as we
viewed the photographs together. As we finished flicking through them the
man noticed Will looking at his 2:2 bolt action rifle, which was probably
Soviet era from WWI. He grinned and grabbed it. It looked similar to the
Lee Enfield’s we used during the days of CCF training at school. Pressing
the worn wood to his shoulder he cocked the bolt and took aim through the
chipped metal cross in the direction of our heads as the cigarette now in
between his lips glowed an ominous red. With a click of the trigger a puff
of smoke emerged from his cigarette as he handed us the gun before
replacing it next to his wife’s metallic single bed. This surprised me too
as traditionally a weapon should have been next to the male bed. Later in
the afternoon, as we sprinkled special flour on our endless cups of tea for
added flavour and he briefly flicked on the TV, I started to understand the
erosion of their traditions as several belly dancers entered the room
through the screen.

Whilst traditions and customs are still very important to the nomadic
people, particularly those who have chosen not to leave this way of life
for the static existence of Ulaanbaatar, the influence of the outside world
has creased their edges. Previously commonplace customs like men keeping
their hats on indoors, picking things up with palms facing upwards and
filling up any glass that is empty are increasingly becoming forgotten in
the face of the inexorable pool of modernity as their lives are synthesised
with a newer world. I am thrilled that western comforts have made the lives
of many hundreds of thousands of nomads easier, particularly as I witness
swathes of the country suffering from desertification, soil erosion and the
evaporation of their water sources as Mongolia’s 60 million cattle compete
for space in the face of climate change. I do hope, for the sake of their
beautiful culture and country which I was privileged to share in however
fleetingly, that both are not lost.

I have read with great interest the recent article in the Leamington Courier about your amazing and exciting 10,000km cycling challenge from Beijing to Tehran.

As the Queen’s personal representative within Warwickshire can I wish you all the very best for this trip of a lifetime and with your fundraising efforts. I note that you are raising money for the ‘A Child Unheard’ charity which is fantastic.

Good luck with your trip and please pass my best wishes to your friend Charles Stevens.

I would be very interested to receive some information on your trip once you have returned.

I have been closely tracking your journey. It is awe-inspiring to see a young man take up such a journey into the unknown in the interest of expanding his horizons and giving back to humanity. This is, indeed, what every parent wishes to teach their children. The amount of hard work involved, the thought of riding into the unknown, the courage, the sheer mental strength and ability it takes to plan and execute this journey is simply phenomenal.

This is indeed what great leaders are made off!

Well done William!!!

You have made us proud and you have inspired ALL of us to give back to humanity, to aim higher and to dream bigger. I only wish my daughter will grow up to be like you.

On the side of the road lies a military base, dressed in a khaki green, as
it curiously juxtaposed with a densely packed Buddhist graveyard and stupa
draped in its richly coloured flags on the other. This official presence
and suggestions of a concentrated population were some of the first
indications of Ulaanbaatar. As we pedaled on harassed by the more assertive
driving of Mongolia’s capital, the pullulations and vibrance of the capital
drew us in. A symbol of the countries resurgent pride and growing
confidence bore down on us. On the billboard were the iconic monuments of
the world; The Eiffel Tower, The Leaning Tower of Pisa, The Statue of
Liberty, Big Ben and, of course, the imposing Mongolian Horse of Genghis
Khan a short drive outside the city. During the seventy years of Soviet
rule the utterance of Genghis was wiped from the lips of its population. At
the Empire’s zenith, Mongolia was fifteen times larger than it is today,
despite it still being the fifteenth largest country in the world.

For hundreds of kilometres, including our entry into Ulaanbaatar, we
avoided the debris from Soviet rule in the form of empty vodka bottles
along the road. A 25% alcohol dependency rate is a sad consequence for a
country trying to escape it historical past of Russian and Chinese
subjugation. Even the name of the city is literally translated as ‘Red
Hero. Yurts containing the recently migrated nomads of Mongolian history
came to be part of its future in this sprawling city clamped by steep
hills. It became obvious that in the past thirty years Ulaanbaatar has
experienced a 3000% growth rate as the city’s infrastructure and roads
cracked, buckled and jolted under the pressure of ever increasing numbers
of Toyota Prius’ (which constitute the vast majority of Mongolian cars) and
Land Cruisers.

As we crossed over the Tuul River, the lifeblood of Ulaanbaatar, I could
see the city as two halves - a yin and a yang. Behind me, in the yurts and
shacks lies the poverty which sees people huddling in manholes during the
winter months and burning coal and even plastic bottles, contributing to
the cities pollution. Partly for this reason it is the most polluted
capital in the world. In front is the growing prosperity of Mongolia’s
elite. Mercedes G-Wagon’s costing tens of millions of tugrik smugly rolled
past. On a newly constructed golf course, the first international course in
Mongolia, the countries great and good tees off as we can stare up at its
raised banks*. *The luxurious 25 floors of polished glass of the Blue Sky
Tower, a name recalling the central image of Mongolian spiritualism, the
Eternal Blue Sky, leans upwards like an unfurling sail as cocktails floated
around the polished decks of its upper floors. Even as the statue of Lenin
in the central square was recently torn down (and in an ironic twist of his
fate was auctioned off) this prosperity is confined to a small elite as the
rest labour on.

The beep of a horn sent me back to the moment as the traffic ground to a
halt. The car pooling system where only certain registration plates can
drive on certain days seemed to have made little difference to the speed of
the journey. Ulaanbaatar was a city which the Soviets designed to never
accommodate more than 500,000 people, let alone over the 1,500,000 today. A
newly constructed pavement saw tired labourers wave at us as Will rattled
over a pain inducing speed bump. I felt a pull on the back of my bike, as
if an air brake had been applied. A young Mongolian boy wearing hoody,
jeans and sporting a pair of roller skates held onto my pannier. With my
newly attached carriage I was employed to pull him through the city as
amused traffic gave us space as they snapped their photos of the spectacle.
On my right was the Black Market, the central shopping district for the
local population. It used to sell stolen items but now it vended off a
congealed mass of copies and replicas covered on iron railings, painted
containers and creaky wooden tables. A suitably Western fist pump with the
boy concluded the journey as he slingshot through the traffic using cars
door handles. We rolled into the hotel for the night after over 150
kilometres of riding that day, as my lucky charm on the back of my bike -
Vishnu - dangled helplessly after the strains of the journey.

The 7am chimes of the gong from the local monastery sent us flying
downstairs for a breakfast of; 2 chocolate muffins, 1 omelette, two fried
eggs, two yoghurts, a bowl of cereal, several cups of orange juice, milk, a
litre of water, a plate of sausages, 4 dumplings and a few pieces of
broccoli as my stomach welcomed its inflation.

After an enjoyable and insightful afternoon with Jim and Nomuunbat Dwyer,
long-term expat residents of Ulaanbaatar, seeing the city and learning more
about Mongolia’s place in the context of the New Silk Road and Asia’s
future, we anticipated our visit to the North Korean National Restaurant.
It comes equipped with its exported waitresses and apparently bountiful
supplies of food. Mongolia is one of the few countries in the world
boasting both a North and South Korean Embassy. It keeps up good relations
with both parties having a visa free arrangement with North Korea and a
high level of trade with South Korea.

Jim had suggested that we visit the North Korean National Restaurant and it
was one of these rare experiences that we couldn’t miss as we waved down a
car to head off to the EXE plaza’s fourth floor. Ulaanbaatar is a giant
Uber system without Uber as most drivers stop and deliver you to your
chosen location, even without a taxi license, in return for financial
reimbursement. As we navigated to this hidden North Korean breadbasket, it
was only when we sat down at the table - seeing the menus that we knew we
were in the right place. Obsequious staff guided us to a table as gleams
and patience persisted under the watchful eye of the party official at the
back of the room (some waitresses had fled their little North Korea,
although I do not know if their attempts were successful).

The interior was a chintzy mix of dangling fairy lights, tacky paintings of
waterfalls and sunsets and fake flowers as the restaurants proceedings were
coordinated to us in broken English. Steaming plates of food were offered
before us as testament to the cornucopia of good things which flow out of
North Korea. I received a generous portion of peppered beef on hot pebbles.
As the aromas wafted up into my sinus’ I was sure they didn’t want me to
recall the 104 cattle which Mongolia airlifted to them as humanitarian aid
on 29 December 2014 as the mirage evaporated up with the smell.

As we dug into our meals, the beaming waitresses, dressed in uniforms like
aircraft stewardesses lined the stage in front of us as they began a
synchronised dance. We sniggered at the empty emotion. The production was
in desperate need of elements of meta-theatricality (as was the restaurant
itself). In an unpredicted extension of The Democratic Republic of North
Korea's diplomatic mission towards the West the waitresses came around, and
looking us in the eye, firmly shook our hands as the stage travelled
further into the restaurant as I tried to hold a sense of decorum.

Having enjoyed the transformative experience, a small gift shop with glass
counter sold small trinkets. Badges, patches, stickers and medals of the
Glorious Leader shone with the brightness of a nuclear detonation. A
collection of memorabilia demanded $120 (amusingly only dollars accepted)
as North Korea welted under the sway of foreign purchasing power from its
‘greatest enemy’. A book on ‘Seventy Years of Excellency by the Supreme
Leader’ sadly was neither signed by the Supreme Leader nor was it for sale
as I was keen to read of his achievements.

As we returned to the hotel hailing another unsuspecting driver, recharged
and ready for another week of pedaling heading North West, the booms and
roars of fireworks concluded Mongolia’s Day of the Young Soldier as the
hums of monks and bells were drowned out.

Over a flat expanse, pebbled with dirt and the occasional brush stroke of
struggling green lies a small hut. Beyond it, the Gobi Desert starts to
give way to the fertility of the steppes. At first glance it could have
been a small stable. It was not attractive; a black scratched exterior lies
below bare wooden columns supporting an uneven black tiled roof. As I walk
closer the streaking sun illuminated the unlit building between the gaping
panels. Untreated wooden supports separate ten stable like slots - five on
either side - as exposed nails staple the structure together.

As the wind subsides it becomes obvious what this structure is. It is a
Mongolian lavatory - not one of the typical tourist attractions of
Mongolia. The wretched odious smells fill my nostrils as I try not to
breathe too deeply. With difficulty, I choose my slot. Two flimsy wooden
beams separate a foot wide hole into a ten foot deep pit. Hovering my foot
over the hole it becomes apparent that a wrong slip could see me wriggling
10 foot below amongst a collection of unpalatable debris. I imagined
falling down, unable to escape the steep rocky walls cut by heavy machinery
with only a spectrum of different coloured loo roll, plastic bags and a
variety of different bottles for company as I try to scramble out. My
screams would be unheard as bare buttocks blocked my sinking despair. I
tighten my grasp on the loo roll as if it had become a stress ball. Instead
I try to focus on the cloudless surroundings as I faced outwards. Another
strong gust of wind helped to disperse the convulsive aromas as I thought
about my plan of action for the most dangerous lavatory I have yet
encountered. Taking out my phone I thought about it plunging down and
landing with a squelch, half buried, only moving as it wiggled helplessly
to the buzz of my morning alarm until the battery died or it was recovered
by a sophisticated rescue operation.

As I tried to dispose of the spoiled goods the convection currents caused
the loo roll to flutter upwards, unfurling outwards in a long strip as it
wafted around me like a circling kite. In desperation, my fingers
delicately plucked it, rewrapping, and this time I thrusted it downwards.
Watching its progress, I was satisfied that it was all clear. After
repeating this process I carefully straightened up, trying not to fall down
in the same way you may fall down when bouncing onto your buttock when on a
trampoline.

Relieved, I walked out with the fresh air cooling my humid brow. Just
before my tent, I turned away from the sight of a local alleviating himself
against the wall of a house. Disdain was my first reaction, as the shack
stood, unforgettably, behind me. But then again if you cared for your
safety what would you do?

As we entered the Gobi freshly laundered sheets and Western luxuries blew away with the prospect of a favourable wind and easy ride. The days before in China, though long, had not presented us with the challenges of 50kph winds, sandstorms, rain and freezing temperatures which reduced hourly progress to less than 10 miles an hour. Unlike, the abrupt borders which divide countries, the changes in landscape and climate where much more gradual as we approached the Mongolian boarder. Each day the temperature dropped a few degrees as we felt the icy prickle insidiously creeping into our extremities. With each day the landscape transformed from urban to rural, lush to barren, vibrate to desolate.

On Monday, our second day of riding we were surrounded by jasmine tree lined road which emitted an aroma similar to the courtyard of an upmarket hotel. A gentle light and green mountains provided an ideal backdrop for a photo opportunity. By Sunday the environment has degenerated into a monotonous plain of sand and dust as far as the eye could see. Trees and even grass gradually disappeared; houses vanished too as power lines became our sole points of reference. My Garmin, though working, could no longer provided data on the road we were on, as I looked down at the small arrow travelling into emptiness on our north-westerly heading.

A gentle breeze at the beginning of the week had turned into 50kph gusts by the weekend, resulting in us cycling tilted at 15 degrees into the wind like a halted pendulum. Sand blew from across the barren plateau of the Gobi Desert into our eyes and faces stinging like pinpricks as they refused to be stilled. The road increasingly gathered undulations of mounting sand as our tracks made temporary imprints. The force of the wind had toppled billboards as the sand limited visibility to several hundred metres as we tightened the wraps of our face masks. Disappearing fences on the sides of the road signaled our increasing solitude. Before carefully lined stakes marked property but now even the wiry and corrugated fences vanished as the extremes of weather evaporated human boundaries and desire for possession. Where in China rich pastures and thriving industry covered the sides of the road by the time we reached Mongolia this was replaced by the carcasses of famished animals with their young toppled like road kill. As Will and I attempted conversation during the long miles he wondered how many had died building the affectionately named G208 road that we rode as we were battered by wind and sand. After a thoughtless giggle it occurred to me that it was possible people did perish during its construction and a certain sobriety returned once again. We wouldn’t have survived the night in those conditions as the carcasses of those sheep took on additional meaning. This area had apparently suffered a four year long drought and the consequences at times were painfully clear. As we entered the border town of Erenhot on Saturday to a remarkably English drizzle some in the town thought that we had brought good luck as it was some of the first rain they had seen in years.

Faces and physiques changed as the slender and delicate features of the Han Chinese turned into the more robust builds of the Mongolian tribes. A guttural ‘Welcome to Mongolia’ greeted us at the border along with smiles and waves as they had in China. A women standing curiously by the door of her yurt, protected from the elements by rolled out 50 litre barrels of oil drums, waved as we passed. From when we were outside of Beijing to the border of Mongolia the friendliness and compassion was the guiding star that remained constant. On Friday as the heat clutched the roads, shimmering and glistering like reflective pools, I stopped to slowly sip the last remains of my tepid water, trying to make it last. A man in a white Honda stopped and in his open palm held out a bottle of water. Delighted, and touching my hand to heart in that symbol of appreciation which language does not obscure, I finished it in two second flat.

The trucks and lorries which streamed up and down the roads to ‘The Wolf Economy’ of Mongolia were one of our greatest fears. They have been no problem, almost always showing respect as they first give a courteous beep in recognition of us and then granted us plenty of space so as to put many of their equivalents in the UK to shame. As we continue up the road to Ulan Bator - the capital of Mongolia - over 500 kilometres in the distance, now we can only hope for more favourable weather.

Travelling ‘The Silk Road’ is, among many things, an excuse to buy a silk shirt. China had a monopoly on silk, and the secrets of its production were fiercely guarded, with often fatal consequences for would be thieves. As ridiculous and prohibitively expensive as it might sound, silk is the perfect material for travelling; it has a low enough density as to be lightweight and comfortable, while good insulation properties make it warm in winter and cool during Summer months, finally it is one of the strongest natural fibers – worn by many, including the Mongols, as a layer designed to trap an arrow and reduce the damage it dealt. In another life I might have exchanged that silk shirt for spices or a goat, but supply now tends to run ahead of demand, not to mention that the demand for my used shirts hovers around zero.

On Tuesday 24 February last year, the world changed. T.S. Elliot talks about how the world ends: “Not with a bang but a whimper”, fortunately for us, the world changes in a similar way. When it finally happened, no one batted an eyelid as the wheels of progress slowly ground into gear. A train loaded with Christmas trinkets set off from Yiwu in China and crossed two continents to reach Madrid before returning with a cargo of Spanish merchandise. It travelled along the new Yixin’ou line connecting China and Europe via Kazakhstan, Moscow, Eastern Europe into Spain. This is the longest rail line in the world, 450 miles longer than the Trans-Siberian Railway and a 16,156 mile round trip. Two months ago on Monday 15 February the world changed again, another train travelled for the first time from Zhejiang province to Tehran. An important difference between this and the other train journey was that this one passed through Central Asia instead of the Russian federation. Both however usher in a new direction for policy that will prove definitive of the age, if not the epoch; China’s New Silk Road initiative and the resurrection of the Silk Road.

While the basis for this cycle was first conceived of in 2014, it was the subsequentvisit to Ghana in September 2015 that spurred us on. It followed from an initial visitin July 2013, with a group of friends, to the O Africa orphanage and health clinic inAyenyah. In the classroom, the football field and dirt tracks we met many of thechildren whom we would get to know very well in September 2015.

What do maps of the world, caricatures and Donald Trump all have in common? They all distort the truth; Trump achieves this with the careful use of language, while caricatures and maps succeed in their deception by visual means (although the same might apply to Trump’s toupee). As with caricatures, where the head is grossly enlarged, world maps also experience a distortion in their true dimensions.

As the news of the tragic death of Henry Worsley settles and his legacy begins to resonate through the worn tomes of great explorers, it seems fitting to ask what drove him and other British adventurers, to redefine the limits of human feasibility. At the end of January, when Worsley had perished from complete organ failure, while attempting to be the first man to cross the Antarctic alone, it occurred to me that Robert Scott also perished on the return from his polar expedition little more than 100 years earlier. It seems one of fate’s vicissitudes that both died so close to their goals, but their similarities stretch further than their formidable reputations, military background and tragic ends. Indeed they were both British..